


Can't Stand (Without) You

by mangochi



Series: Recalibrating [12]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, M/M, Physical Disability, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s leg breaks down and he finds himself forced to resort to old-fashioned methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stand (Without) You

John isn’t happy when they tell him the prognosis.

“Three weeks?” he rages, wishing he has his prosthetic leg at hand just so he can chuck it at the doctor’s head. She’s looking at him with the imperious expression of a professional who’s seen one too many of his type to be fazed by his tantrum, and that only irritates him further.

“I can’t be out for three weeks,” he tries to explain, lowering his voice to a more reasonable level. “My partner-”

“Your partner has signed off on your treatment forms,” the doctor tells him, sounding almost bored as she checks his file. “Your nervous systems will be recovered enough at the end of the isolation period for you to resume use of your prosthetic.”

“Great,” John mutters, more to himself than anything, but the doctor’s eyes narrow disapprovingly anyway.

“I see you’ve missed all of your routine therapy sessions,” she says, flicking a manicured finger at the datapad in her hand. “Biosynthetic limbs require full maintenance, particularly in the first two months after surgery. Failure to properly connect psychologically can result in……well.” She pauses and gives John a meaningful once-over. “Temporary rejection at best.”

"So give me another,” John says impatiently. "A cheaper model, anything-"

The look on her face is almost pitying. “I’m sorry, Detective, but until your brain recovers….”

“I’m grounded,” John concludes, scowling up at the ceiling in disgust. His right thigh aches, the same dull throb that’s always been there since he woke up from his coma, and he barely notices now.

"I’m afraid so." She does pat his left foot sympathetically before she leaves, so he halfheartedly awards her a point for at least trying. 

Dorian calls him a couple of hours later, and John looks blankly at his beeping comm for a moment before reaching over resignedly to answer.

"What," he says flatly by way of greeting. 

"How’re you holding up?” Dorian asks, his cheerful tone grating on John’s already stretched nerves. 

"Just dandy," John grunts, kicking out moodily and taking minuscule satisfaction in pulling the end of the sheets out from under the mattress. "Since someone saw fit to confine me here for weeks on end.”

"It’s for your own good," Dorian says reasonably. 

John hangs up.

Dorian calls twice more in the next hour, but after the last ring goes unanswered, the calls finally stop.

Dorian doesn’t stop by to visit the next morning, and John tells himself that he’s not disappointed. Maldonaldo’s probably got him finishing up John’s pile of delayed paperwork, or he’s finally getting the new upgrades from Rudy that he’s been putting off because he doesn’t like being forced into sleep mode, no matter how temporarily. “It’s seriously freaky,” he told John once, then refused to explain how.

By the third day, John’s ready to explode and Dorian still hasn’t come by. John refuses to call the precinct out of sheer bullheaded will, but that doesn’t stop him from pitching nasty glares at his silent comm as the hours pass. Doctors come and go, probing at what’s left of his right leg, scanning his head and scribbling cryptically on their little tablets. 

"You’re showing progress," they tell John, but that’s all that he manages to get out of them in thirty-six hours. By the forty-fifth hour, he’s desperate enough to call for a wheelchair. He wants an old-fashioned one, one that requires physical effort to move, because at least the burn in his arms and shoulders will remind him that he’s still got a body. That he can still do that much at least. 

It takes the staff a while to dig one out from what John suspects are the deepest pits of their storage units, but a nurse soon toddles in with the clattering contraption in tow.

A few awkward bumps and clumsy maneuvers later, John’s scooting around in laps around his hospital room, concentrating on navigating the cluttered space. It gives him something to do, anyway, despite the occasional odd glance he gets through the glass wall.

He’s so focused on completing his twentieth lap that he doesn’t notice the door open until Dorian speaks from behind him. 

"I see you’re keeping busy."

John crashes sideways into the windowsill and curses loudly, shaking his hand from where it was caught between the right wheel and the wall. “Damn it, Dorian!”

"Nice to see you too, John." Dorian walks farther into the room, still smiling infuriatingly. 

"You ass," John gripes. "How is it even legal for you to sign my forms?"

"You have no designated next of kin," Dorian informs him. "Captain Maldonaldo has authorized me to act as your medical proxy for the time being."

"The time being what?" John demands.

"However long it takes for you to acknowledge that you need a life," Dorian says easily. "You know, branch out. Meet new people. Heaven forbid that you get a dog."

"I don’t need a proxy," John says, ignoring him. "Clearly, I’m fully capable of making my own-"

"Clearly, you have no idea how to take care of yourself." Dorian watches John awkwardly maneuver his chair around to properly face him. "You nearly had a stroke, John."

"Nearly," John says dismissively. "Doesn’t count."

"Maldonaldo thinks it does," Dorian points out. "There’s this thing called hierarchy, John, perhaps you’ve heard of it."

John grunts noncommittally, glaring at the spotless floor tiles at Dorian’s feet. “So what now, proxy?”

"Now we get out of here." Dorian steps around the chair to reach the handles, and John cranes his head over his shoulder to glare up suspiciously.

"What are you doing? Get off- hey!" He nearly topples from the chair as Dorian pushes forward, before remembering to balance his left foot. He clutches at the armrests as Dorian proceeds to wheel him out the door. "Dorian!"

"You’ve been discharged to my care," Dorian says cheerfully. "You know, this is actually very fun- oops-" He narrowly avoids crashing John into the wall before correcting their course. "And I concluded that house rest is really the best for you. Did you know that no less than six nurses have filed patient complaints in the thirteen times you’ve been admitted to this hospital?"

"No," John grumbles, trying to control his rising nausea as the chair skids around a corner. "God, your driving sucks."

"Sorry," Dorian says unapologetically. The checkout process is a lot longer than John remembers, but soon they’re rolling across the parking lot, John gritting his teeth as the wheels bounce off the ground. He plucks irritably at the hospital-issued blanket over his lap, glaring down at the gap beside his left leg.

"When’s the replacement coming again?" he asks as they reach his car, nearly biting off his own tongue as the wheelchair bumps over one final rut.

"Tomorrow." Dorian wheels him around to the passenger side and opens the door, then looks down at John consideringly. "You ready?

"Ready for wh-" His next words are cut off by a yelp when Dorian suddenly squats and grabs him under the arms, hauling him up from the chair.

"Watch your head," Dorian advises, shuffling around and bending down. John curses and clings to the front of Dorian’s jacket, trying in vain to stand on his own. God, he hates moments like this, when he’s forced to remember just how damn broken he is.

Then he’s in his seat, Dorian patting him on the shoulder once before closing the door. John’s quietly fuming by the time he hears the trunk close and Dorian slides in beside him.

"A little warning," he says, "would have been appreciated."

"Sorry," Dorian says again, as they back out of the parking lot.

Later, John suspects that Dorian takes too much satisfaction from heaving him out of the car onto the damnable chair, but his annoyance takes a backseat when he realizes that Dorian has his key.

"Hey," he complains, watching uneasily as Dorian unlocks his door.

"It’s amazing, John, how much leeway the captain’s willing to grant when it comes to your well-being," Dorian says blithely. "Here we go."

John looks around suspiciously as Dorian wheels him in, wondering if his partner’s planned something particularly…..Dorian-ish. He wouldn’t be surprised to see a cake at this point, something with iced words and possibly a cat theme just to piss him off.

"You better not have-" He cuts off when he sees his apartment, his hand flying up to signify a stop.

There’s a metal bar set into the wall that runs along the side of his living room, still gleaming and new. The clutter of exercise equipment and arbitrary pieces of furniture has been cleared away to allow easy access to the kitchen, his television, the bathroom. The counter’s been lowered six inches, stools pushed neatly out of the way beneath the chrome surface, and- he stares very hard at this last item- a charging port is now tucked discreetly in the corner of his bedroom.

"What’s all this?" John finally asks, when he manages to regain his power of speech.

"You like it?" Dorian pushes him farther in and walks out in front of him, spreading his arms with a grin. "We were up all night setting it up."

"You don’t sleep," John says automatically, but his mind’s still reeling. His floor’s been cleaned, the glass interfaces along the wall polished to a flawless shine. The air smells faintly of lemon instead of the usual underlying layer of old takeout, and he can see grocery bags in the kitchen.

"You…..so this is what you’ve been up to?" He wheels himself forward slowly, reaching out to touch the metal bar experimentally. 

"Rudy helped." Dorian puts his hands in his pockets, watching John oddly. "Is it…..is it okay?"

John clears his throat, awkward under the weight of Dorian’s anxiety. “It’s good.” He finds himself glancing over at the charging port again and suddenly finds it hard to speak. “Thanks,” he manages, not sure where to look. “I don’t……you didn’t have to.”

"Oh, that?" Dorian nods at the port. "I, ah, took the liberty. Since I’ll be staying here temporarily. If it’s a problem, I can-"

"It’s not." John almost wishes he can take back the words when Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up, the beginnings of a puppy smile pulling at his mouth. "It could be a problem,” he hastily amends, but it’s far too late.

"You know, if you wanted me to move in sooner, all you had to do was ask."

John splutters. “That’s not- I never said-“

"Seriously, I’m flattered. I could move it closer, if you like. You know, in case you get lonely-"

"I will get out of this chair," John threatens. "And I will hop over and kill you."

Dorian just grins at him, and John tries hard not to return it. He tries and tries and almost succeeds, until Dorian tilts his head and says, “Love you too, man.”


End file.
